This is Not a Joke (It's a Misadventure)
by KnowNonsense
Summary: Frodo Baggins goes to sleep expecting to sail to the Grey Havens and leave Middle Earth the next day. Much to his surprise however, he wakes up tangled in bed with a much...younger looking version of his uncle. Now he has to explain to him that he thinks he might have woken up 80 years in the past and he's not a creepy stalker. Awkward.
1. An Unexpected Bedfellow

I know I messed up (and will continue to) some dates and canon stuff. I apologize, and ignore them pretty please.

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Chapter One: An Unexpected Bedfellow

:~:o:O:o:~:

Bilbo Baggins lay on his side, eyes closed in blissful slumber.

He wakened slowly, growing first aware of the cozy warmth of his bed, and then the heavy, comfortable duvet sheets tucked snugly around him. His arms were wrapped languidly around something soft, and nuzzling closer, he pressed his face into a pile of thick, dark curls.

Wait…curls?

With an indistinct shout, Bilbo bolted upright, shoving the covers of his bed down to reveal a slight figure occupying its other side. Yelping, the other occupant of his bed jolted awake, and for a brief moment, the two stared at each other awkwardly.

Then all of a sudden, the stranger's jaw dropped, and he reeled back in shock.

Bilbo used that time to observe him. Whoever this... _person_ was…they were dark-haired, blue-eyed, and generally not at all strange looking for a hobbit. In fact, they looked an awful lot like his cousin Drogo Baggins, now that he thought about it.

But why was he thinking about it, really? There was a stranger in his bed! A _stranger_! One who was possibly a burglar, ruffian, or Eru knows what else! No matter that they were a hobbit, this was utterly, and _terribly_ unrespectable. How had it happened, even? He didn't _think_ he'd gotten drunk last night.

Or maybe he had, and he just couldn't remember.

 _Ugh._

"Uncle?"

Bilbo startled and let out a small squeak at the unexpected voice. He looked up to see blue eyes regarding him curiously, and with a slight bit of…was that _awe_?

At least he looked somewhat confused as well.

"Uncle Bilbo? Is that you?" He heard again, and that was when he realized what it was exactly the other occupant of his bed had said. He tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"What are you going on about? And who are you?" Bilbo demanded a tad rudely. After all, they didn't teach you manners for this sort of situation. No sir.

"What do you mean, who am I?" The stranger said incredulously. "I'm Fro-…Wait. Oh. My." He paused abruptly, peering at him through suspiciously narrowed eyes. "You look…awful young."

"I beg your pardon?" Bilbo asked in disbelief. _What in Middle Earth-_

"I think I need a drink," groaned the stranger, moving to the edge of the bed and putting his forehead in his hands. Bilbo was inclined to agree with him for once, and nodded practically.

"I'll make us some tea...and then we can discuss… _this_ like civilized people."

The stranger (Bilbo _really_ needed to learn his name), smiled uneasily, and rose, leading him out the door. He navigated the round archways of Bag End with practiced ease, reaching the kitchen before him, where he pulled out a chair for himself. He seated himself opposite Bilbo's usual place at the dining table, calmly acting as though nothing odd had happened. Bilbo stared after him bemused, because _did they know each other or something?_

"Have you _been_ here before? To Bag End?" Bilbo asked perplexedly.

The stranger grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Ah," he said, wincing, "I was just getting to that. I was going to wait for the tea to finish."

Bilbo eyed him dubiously, but acquiesced, and after a few minutes of waiting in silence, took the kettle from the stove and poured them each a cup of tea. He set the cups down gingerly on the table and then seated himself delicately, relaxing against the back of his chair as he quirked a brow inquiringly at him.

"And now it's ready," he stated blandly, "go on."

"I don't really know where to start," the stranger began, and Bilbo rolled his eyes, budding frustration beginning to overflow.

"Then I will start for you. Who are you, and what are you doing in my home, and sleeping in my own bed no less!"

"My name is Frodo," he said tiredly, "and as far as I know, I fell asleep in _my own_ bed last night."

"What do you-"

"Listen," Frodo said, ignoring his furious exclamation in favor of cutting him off. "I will answer all your questions to the best of my ability, but I know that my explanation will sound unbelievable. All I ask is that you hear me out."

Bilbo frowned, noticing the quiet authority in Frodo's voice, and regarded him contemplatively. He wasn't sure what it was, but there was something strange about the young hobbit, and the aura that surrounded him. It wasn't just the bizarre circumstance…how he'd just appeared in Bilbo's bed, seemingly out of nowhere as he slept. There was something strange about his eyes. They looked ancient: wise beyond their years.

He looked in pain.

Bilbo was nodding absentmindedly to himself before his mind caught up with his actions. What was he thinking? This boy could be a burglar! A _thief_! He could be _anything_ really, and yet here Bilbo was, sipping tea, and sitting calmly with him at the breakfast table.

This was ridiculous…but it was also the Shire.

The Shire, where no crimes worse than the theft of silver spoons or mushrooms was committed, and anything beyond that was unheard of. This was not one of his storybooks or one of their grand tales, nor was it the world of men and dwarves where criminals and ruffians were known to be commonplace.

This was his hobbit hole, and he a hobbit _of_ the Shire _in_ the Shire, and this _Frodo_ person was a hobbit as well to boot. What harm could there possibly be? Whatever strange tale his visitor had to spin, it made no difference to Bilbo. They'd sort things out, eat some biscuits...and dare he say it, potentially get some entertainment out of the whole thing. How bad could it be?

"Alright," he said.

It wasn't like he might come to regret it.

:~:o:O:o:~:

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Rogue One gave me Hobbit feels for some reason, and so I've dived straight back into this fandom and remembered that Hobbit is my soul. I take a very long time to write usually, hence the long delay on my other works, and therefore my goal with this one is to follow the policy "write it all down and don't look back till it's finished." Hopefully, that means frequent updates and less stress for me.

My idea for this work came when I was watching The Fellowship of the Ring the other day, and the thought occurred to me that the hobbits of the Fellowship were awful lucky to not be the only ones in the group. Like seriously, they could complain about a lack of Second Breakfast without getting ridiculed! And then I thought of poor Bilbo, all alone in the company of 13 grumpy dwarves, and decided he needed a friend. And then there was my obsession with time travel, Bagginshield and all those Frodo feels in LOTR so here you go: the slightly cracky adventures of Bilbo, his nephew, and that company of grumpy (but absolutely hot) dwarves.

Thanks for reading, and hope to see you soon! :)


	2. An Unexpected Awakening

I'm planning to alternate between Bilbo and Frodo's POV each chapter, so here we are with the latter. Also, I'm so tired, I literally cannot read this anymore so I'll go back and edit it later. Please do enjoy :)

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Chapter Two: An Unexpected Awakening

:~:o:O:o:~:

There were days when Frodo didn't get out of bed.

When his shoulder ached and shrieked in agony, throbbing from a stab-wound long unhealed, inflicted upon him years ago by the Ringwraiths of Mordor. When the pain reignited old memories, ones of ice-cold terror and desperate fear, of the bewitching enchantment with which the Ring had ensnared him.

On those days, he stayed wrapped up in his sheets, hugging his knees tightly and trembling, wishing more than anything for his pain to go away.

As always, Sam would find him, ask, "Are you alright, Mister Frodo?" to which he'd respond by remaining silent, unable to speak through his shivering. Sam would _hmm_ , sitting down next to him, and place a gentle, comforting hand on his shoulder as he looked at him with those kind, wise eyes that were more understanding than anyone else he knew.

Frodo was grateful, _beyond_ grateful for his companionship, and yet at times, he couldn't help but think guiltily, _it's not enough_.

His friends were patient, their visits frequent, and around him the world was bright and growing, thriving with life and love and joy. After the War of the Ring, Middle Earth was in a new Golden Age and it was apparent, shining through every living thing for all to see.

Yet, it was difficult.

Difficult for him to hold on, to keep up a pretense of happiness for those he loved, when all he really wanted to do was leave. He was constantly hurting, his heart overwhelmed, always pleading for a release from the suffering he went through every day, just by living.

Frodo had sacrificed _everything_ for Middle Earth, and while he wouldn't _like_ to do it again per se, he didn't regret it.

He just wished it were over.

So when one day, Gandalf approached him, tentatively speaking of a place on the final ship leaving for the Grey Havens, he couldn't contain his excitement. He'd leapt at the opportunity, seizing his chance immediately, clasping it close to his heart, and feeling a mix of mingling relief and gratitude rise within his chest. Despite the prospect of leaving his friends behind ( _abandoning them_ , a voice in his mind whispered maliciously), he could not help but wish just this once, to do something for himself.

The thought of parting ways with Merry, Pippin, and Sam, was like sliding a dagger deep between his ribs, but he comforted himself in the knowledge that with the families they'd built since their return, his friends would not be alone.

And neither would he.

Frodo would still have Elrond, Galadriel, and Gandalf, all there on that ship with him. He'd have _Bilbo_ , who (excluding Sam) was arguably the dearest person in his life.

One day, perhaps, he'd be reunited with his friends, but for now...while he dreaded the prospect of telling them, he was content.

Because finally, _finally_ he could rest...

And achieve _peace_ at last.

:~:o:O:o:~:

That night Frodo went to sleep, expecting to sail to the Grey Havens and leave Middle Earth the next day.

Much to his surprise however, he woke up instead, tangled in bed in a mess of intertwined limbs with a much… _younger_ looking version of his uncle. Who was, understandably, not terribly amused with the circumstances.

Although neither was he, to tell the truth.

Because seriously, what the heck?

What the _heck_?

What. The. Freaking. _Heck_?!

He'd woken up this morning to the sound of a shrill, hobbit-y sounding shriek piercing the air, and promptly almost hit his head against the headboard in shock.

Waking up next to someone was... _unusual_ to say the least. Waking up next to someone who had the smoother, less-lined, duplicate to his uncle's face? That more than swept unusual out of the park.

What was going on? Why was he in his bed in Bag-End, having been previously wrapped around someone who looked an awful lot like his uncle, listening to aforementioned person _chew his ear off_ about supposedly "breaking and entering" or something along those lines? And what was that he heard about someone being an inebriated idiot and letting a drunkard into their home?

Frodo didn't understand what was happening, nor why anything was happening at all, but he could tell that something was obviously and terribly, _terribly_ wrong.

Bilbo (it _had_ to be him, he'd know those nervous ticks, that nose twitch _anywhere_ ) was demanding answers, but he simply didn't have them in him to give. He was just as clueless and confused about this whole mess as the other hobbit.

He was feeling rather lost, and almost… _disappointed_? Although that was probably reasonable, seeing as he was supposed to achieve eternal peace and whatnot today, and this might… put a delay on that. Yeah, you could say that.

Outwardly, he attempted to project an aura of calmness and responsibility, cause you know, _first impressions_. He had no idea if he was succeeding, but leastwise he was _trying_ , although it was an awfully tiring image to uphold. Why did he have to anyway, seeing as this young look-alike of his uncle apparently didn't even recognize him?

Ugh, this would all be so much easier if he weren't sober.

Eru what he wouldn't give for a _drink_.

Did he say that out loud? He said that out loud.

 _Whoops._

Anyway, his overwhelming desire to get drunk left him quickly, as just moments later, it was shocked out of him.

 _Literally._

As soon as he stepped out of the doorway of the master bedroom and into the hall, his whole body froze, stiffening to a rigid stop. It was only through reminding himself of past instances of severe trauma and witnessing gruesome sights, that he kept himself from hyperventilating or doing something else similarly stupid. Breathing forcibly through his nose, he took deep, calming breaths in order to steady himself. He exhaled slowly, blinking once, twice, _three times_ , and then he pinched himself hard. _Ouch_.

This couldn't be right.

There was _no way_ this could be right.

Everything was missing.

Well, not _everything_ , but certainly more than enough. All of the things...all of the things in Bag-End that screamed _Bilbo_ were gone. There was nothing, no relics from his quest or ancient elven tapestries. No song lyrics or golden coins lying about, scattered across tabletops or on chairs. None of the organized chaos that was his uncle was anywhere to be found.

Where was Bilbo's shield?

Where was his walking stick?

Where was the weaving that should have been draped between the bookshelves and the flowerpot?

Frodo was pretty sure his jaw was clenched as he walked the halls of Bag-End, his feet absentmindedly carrying him into the kitchen as he catalogued each and every missing piece of the home he knew so well. The silence was deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders he took it all in, but then his heart was speeding up, beating rapidly as the reality of what was happening became all of a sudden, glaringly obvious.

He was in Bag-End, but it wasn't _his_ Bag-End.

His uncle was younger, and everything he knew and admired about him wasn't there, simply because it hadn't _happened_ yet. There were no marks left by any journey, because there had _been_ none.

 _It made sense._

Everything from his adventure was gone, and though Frodo hadn't gotten around all of his home yet, he was more than willing to wager that if he went to the study, there would be no map of to the Lonely Mountain hanging on the wall, nor handwritten chronicle of his and his uncle's adventures laying on the desk.

Here and now, there was a single resounding truth that was impossible, improbable, and yet, undeniably the only answer to all that had happened.

Simply put, Bilbo hadn't gone on his adventure yet.

 _Bilbo hadn't gone on his adventure yet._

Frodo sat down at the kitchen table, drawing in a shaky, tremulous breath, because reality was setting in and honestly, he was getting a little panicked.

Only recently he'd come to terms with his decision to leave behind his friends, his old life, and be peace...but not like _this_! He was supposed to go to a land of tranquility, beauty and purity to be _healed_ , and spend out his days in rest and laughter with his uncle for eternity.

He hadn't wanted to _dimension_ travel, _time_ travel, or _something_ travel (because what else could this be?) and yet here he was, in a different reality, with all of his dreams thwarted.

 _What if he was stuck here?_

He rolled his shoulder back, hearing the joint pop, and wincing at the familiar, cold ache of lingering steel against his bones.

The thought was honestly terrifying.

He _had_ to find a way back.

Shaking his head, he jolted himself from his thoughts, because currently, there was a more pressing matter at hand. One he _really_ needed to focus on.

Now, he had to explain to Bilbo that he thought he may have woken up 80 years in the past, he really wasn't a creepy stalker, and that a lot of crazy shit happened in the future that even he wouldn't have believed had he not lived through it.

 _Awkward._

With a ragged sigh, Frodo brushed a hand through his hair, wondering idly to the ceiling what it was he'd done to deserve ending up _here_.

Meeting Bilbo's familiar hazel gaze across the table, he reached for his cup of tea, tilting it back to take a large gulp of the unexpectedly sweltering liquid. Hacking a little, because _yay, first impressions_ , he set it back down on the table and braced himself for the inevitably oncoming storm. Bilbo was staring at him, eyes faintly disapproving but wide and curious, and oh, _what the hell_.

 _Here goes._

:~:o:O:o:~:

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Welp, this chapter turned out a bit longer than I originally intended. I know it was a bit lacking in action, however my brain decided I needed to write some Frodo introspection and I also felt it was important to get some of his perspective before proceeding with the plot. At any rate, the next chapter will contain their conversation, and I'm looking forward to writing it. See you next time :)


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